


Of Bullets and Big Buck Hunter

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel Whump, Dean is a Little Shit, F/M, idk this is a silly one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-01-18 19:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12394629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: Written for a Tumblr challenge; the prompt was a quote from Firefly, which is bolded.





	1. Of Bullets and Big Buck Hunter

“The usual?” Katie asks, before you can even flop down onto your stool. 

“Thanks, sweetheart,” you say. “How’s your momma doin’? Any better today?”

“Oh, you know,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Long day?” 

“You could say that,” you grimace. You’d spent it working on a murder case, a fucking grisly one, which was so not the kinda excitement you’d been hoping for, but Katie doesn’t need to know that. She slides you a Jameson and ginger and you take a grateful sip. 

Katie’s wiggling her eyebrows in a way that looks like it’s supposed to be meaningful, but mostly just looks like a seizure. 

“What?” you ask. She jerks her head to the side a couple times, then raises her eyebrows and looks pointedly next to you, and you turn and look, which turns out to be a total mistake, because your mouth drops open a bit and you’re afraid your eyes are bugging out like a cartoon character. You get an impression of jaw and stubble and cheekbones, and then he’s turning to look at you. His eyes are green and gold and gorgeous, and you are 100% staring, shit. 

“Hey,” he says, and his tongue flicks out over his lower lip. 

“Hi,” you squeak. 

“Sam,” he says. The hand he holds out for you to shake is strong and rough, and you never knew you had a thing for hands but this particular hand makes you feel feverish in a really nice way. 

You manage to croak out your name. 

“Nice to meet you,” he says. “You live around here?” He has  _ dimples _ . Like cute little Shirley Temple dimples. 

“Yup, born and raised,” you say, sorta wishing it wasn’t true. “How about you?” 

“Just passing through,” he says, and you try to fight your disappointment. “My brother and I travel a lot. Here for business.” 

“What do you do?” 

“We’re hunters,” he says. You get the distinct impression you’re being lied to, because who the fuck makes a living as a hunter, but you don’t press it. 

“Bet I can still beat you at Big Buck Hunter,” you say. He grins. 

You win the first game, which is sort of a miracle, because you’re so distracted by him you can barely think straight. He’s just so tall, and he smells fucking great, and it’s sorta just not fair how attractive he is. On top of all that, he’s funny, and every time you laugh, he smiles like he’s proud of himself, and his dimples do a  _ thing _ . 

“I’ll get another round if you’ll give me another chance,” he says. His eyes are sparkling. So you dig up some change, and Sam orders more drinks. As soon as his back is turned Katie gives you a thumbs up. You’re just mentally high-fiving yourself for not doing anything too stupid yet. 

You get your ass handed to you in the second game, which doesn’t surprise you in the slightest. Maybe he wasn’t lying about being a hunter. He definitely knows his way around a gun, even a little plastic gun that looks flimsy and ridiculous set against his broad shoulder; there’s something kinda scary about how capable his hands look. 

“I guess we need to have a tiebreaker,” he says. 

“I’ll get drinks,” you say. He’s looking at you, smiling, with his head tilted, like the world’s sexiest puppy. 

You’re halfway to the bar when you hear the rumblings of a fight about to break out: an indignant, “Hey, man!” and what sounds like a whole bunch of macho bullshit. You turn around with a sigh. Sure enough, it’s two of your regulars, guys you’ve had to book for public intoxication (and, in one case, urinating in the public park’s sandbox, which...gross) on more than one occasion. 

To your surprise, Sam’s making a beeline for the little cluster of men.  

“Trust me, you don’t want to do this,” you hear one of them saying, a stranger, but then he gives Sam a look, and you realize this must be his brother. He looks familiar in a way that’s going to make you crazy if you think about it too much. 

“Hey!” you bark from across the room. Adams and Turner’s heads turn to you, fast, and you give them your Scary Cop face. Turner mumbles something, but they’re backing down, walking away. Good. Sam gives you a quizzical look. You realize it must look funny, those two slinking away from little old you, and you smile to yourself. 

Sam and his brother have a quick, muttered conversation, and then Sam starts walking back to you with that gorgeous mouth set in a frown. 

“My brother wants to go,” he says. You’re pretty sure you’re not imagining the regret on his face, which is all sorts of flattering. 

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” you say. 

“I, uh-” he starts, and the way he shifts his weight and shoves his hands into his pockets is 100% adorable. “I’ll be around for another night or two. Rain check on the tiebreaker?” 

“Yeah,” you grin. He programs your number into his phone, and smiles at you over his shoulder as they’re leaving. You wonder if you’re blushing in a cute, delicate sorta way or in a tomato sort of way. Probably the latter. 

 

\------

 

You’ve been at work for exactly one hour, and you are ready to scream. You’re pretty sure your head is going to explode. And sure, you stayed out a little too late last night, what with the gorgeous stranger who  _ got your number!!! _ , but that gorgeous stranger is honestly the only good thing in your entire life at the moment. All hell seems to have broken loose, because nobody can make head or tail of this murder case, and you’ve spent the morning wading through paperwork. 

At this point you might not even be mad if your head exploded. Maybe then it’d hurt less. 

“...FBI,” comes a low, familiar voice from outside your office. You hear an exchange that sounds like even more paperwork headed your way, and then there’s a knock on your doorframe. 

“Come in,” you say absently, still absorbed in the form you’re filling out, trying to figure out how exactly to describe the way the victim’s heart was ripped out without sounding like a complete psycho. You hear the door click closed, and you look up. 

Sam. Sam wearing a suit. And yeah, okay, that’s definitely the best thing you’ve seen all week, but what the fuck are Sam and his suit and his ridiculously attractive face doing in your office? 

And then you look next to Sam, at the man you assume is his brother, and you do a double take. He looks so damn familiar. You can’t place his face, and now you’ve been staring for a couple seconds too long...but he’s staring at you the same way, brow furrowed over bright green eyes (yeah, you notice his eyes, because apparently the gorgeous gene just runs in the family) and your headache intensifies. 

“Shit,” the brother says suddenly, his face draining of all color, and just as suddenly, you remember. 

“Hands up,” you say, and you have your gun trained on him before he can blink. “Put your hands up where I can see them.” 

Sam is looking from you to his brother and back again, completely mystified. 

“Dean? Do you guys know each other?” he says. And then, to you, “You’re a cop? Why didn’t you tell me you’re a cop?” 

“First of all,” you say, through gritted teeth, “I didn’t  _ not _ tell you. You didn’t ask. Second, your brother is about to be under all sorts of arrest, so I’d suggest shutting up.” 

“I can explain-” Dean says. 

“Dean, please explain why the pretty cop is pointing her gun at you,” Sam says, with the bitchiest bitchface you’ve seen this year and the tone of someone talking to a very slow toddler. 

“Well, we may not have parted on the best of terms. I realize certain words were exchanged. Also, certain… bullets,” Dean says gingerly. 

“You shot her?” Sam asks. 

“No, I shot him,” you say. You can’t really help the note of pride that creeps into your voice. It had been a good shot, even if it had (obviously) not done its job. 

“I was a demon,” Dean says, as if that explains everything. Sam rolls his eyes. You shake your head, trying to clear your ears, because you can’t have heard that right. 

“Come again?” 

“I think we need to have a conversation,” Sam sighs, and you give him your best “no shit” look. “I promise, we can explain everything. Here, you can handcuff Dean to the chair, if that’ll make you feel better, just give me a chance.” Dean glares at him, but sits down slowly with his hands raised. He doesn’t struggle when you cuff him. 

You train your gun on Sam instead, and he winces, but also looks a little impressed. 

“Talk.” 

“Okay, so...we’re not exactly FBI agents.” 

“No shit.” 

“Well, what I told you at the bar last night...that was true. We’re hunters. Except we don’t hunt deer, we hunt monsters.” 

You blink at him silently a few times. 

“Ghosts are real. So are vampires, ghouls, all sorts of monsters you’ve probably never heard of.” 

“Why in hell should I believe you?” you finally ask. Sam is looking at you with real concern. 

“You’ve had some unusual deaths in the last week, right?” Sam asks. Your head is spinning, but you manage to nod. “We’re investigating those. We think it was a werewolf.” 

You look from Sam to Dean and then up to the ceiling, saying a silent prayer:  _ whoever is out there, please save me from these raving motherfucking lunatics, amen.  _

“Hey, Cas, I think someone is praying to you,” Dean says with a little smirk. 

And then, without any warning, there’s a man in a trenchcoat standing in your office, and it’s only because of years of training that you manage not to scream. Holy. Fucking. Shit.

“What did you do this time, Dean?” the man asks, eyeing him impatiently. 

“Dude, seriously? She’s freaked enough,” Sam says. Dean looks smug, like this might be retaliation for shooting him and handcuffing him to a chair. 

“This is our friend Castiel,” Dean says. “He’s an angel. Angels are also real. Proof enough?” 

Castiel raises a hand awkwardly. “Hi. I’m sorry for startling you.” 

“Huh,” you say. It comes out all weak and shaky. 

“Dean, try not to be such an asshole,” Castiel says. He rolls his eyes and vanishes. 

“You’re taking this really well,” Sam says. In spite of everything, the warmth in his voice makes a rogue butterfly go flapping through your stomach. 

“Your brother is a demon.” 

“Was!” Dean corrects. 

“Your brother was a demon,” you say to Sam. He nods encouragingly. “Now he’s not?” He nods again. 

“I promise, the thing you met was not Dean,” he says. “If you shot him now, he’d die.” 

“Let’s not test that theory, though,” Dean says hurriedly. “You saw my eyes, right?” 

“Black,” you croak. 

“Yeah. That’s what demons look like,” Sam says. You stare at him stupidly. The truth is, it makes entirely too much sense, and in spite of yourself, you’re starting to believe him. You’d always wondered about those creepy-ass eyes...and about the round you’d put right through Dean’s heart, which didn’t even slow him down. 

“We can help you find the werewolf. We’re sorta experts.” 

You squeeze your eyes closed for a moment. 

“I need a second. Or, like, a thousand seconds.” 

“As long as you need,” Sam says. His voice is like goddamn velvet. 

“If you guys can help with the murders-” you say slowly, and you’re hearing your own voice as if it’s far far away, and you really can’t believe what you’re saying, but- “then yeah, we could use your help. The deputy out there can show you around.” 

Both of them make near-identical expressions of shock, and for a moment it’s incredibly obvious that they’re brothers. 

“Seriously?” Dean asks. You shrug. 

“Explains some of the shit I’ve seen,” you say. 

Sam is grinning at you, looking like he just won the lottery or some shit. “You...took that well,” he says, pushing his hair behind his ears nervously.

“I’m pretty sure I’m insane and so are you,” you say evenly. “But it’s worth a shot, right?” 

“We won’t let ya down,” Dean says. “Can I be uncuffed now?” 

Sam watches you fiddle with the key. “Are you going to come with us? Show us the scene?” he asks. 

“No,” you say. “I told you, I need a second. And possibly a Klonopin.” 

He looks disappointed. 

Dean bolts the second he’s uncuffed, saying, “See you at the car, Sammy.” He seems like he wants to be as far away from you as physically possible.  

Sam lingers, pausing at the door.    


“Do you still want to get a drink later?” he asks tentatively. 

“Do you still want to get a drink with me?” you ask, more than a little surprised. “I mean, I shot your brother...” 

“Honestly? That makes me like you more,” he says, and those dimples are on full display. “I’m sure he deserved it.” 

You’re grinning, and probably blushing like a tomato again. He seems to have that effect on you.

“He did,” you say. “And I’ll definitely need a drink, the way this day is going.” 

“See you later, then.” He smiles at you one last time and leaves, closing the door gently behind him. 

You collapse into your desk chair and take a couple deep breaths. 

Demons are real. A cute guy wants to take you out. 

The world is a strange place. 


	2. Of Krakens and Kissing

“Okay, so...krakens?” 

 

“The fuck?” Sam laughs, in a not-unkind way. “I’ve never even wondered about that one. No idea.” 

 

“Aliens?” 

 

“Nope. Although most of the shit people think is aliens is actually caused by fairies.” 

 

You’re pretty sure a piece of half-chewed falls out of your mouth when it gapes open, but what the fuck ever, fairies are real. Little six-year-old you is so pumped right now. 

 

“Really,” Sam says, and he’s grinning adorably into his wine glass. 

 

“But they’re dicks.” “Okay, um, mermaids?”

 

“What’s up with you and sea creatures?” 

 

“I hate the ocean!” you protest. “It’s called thalassophobia, it’s a thing, I have a recurring nightmare about being eaten by a manatee.” 

 

“So you’re a badass cop who shot my asshole of a demon brother without blinking an eye, but you’re afraid of fish,” he says slowly, eyes twinkling. You still can’t really figure out exactly what color they are, they keep shifting in the low restaurant light, but fuck, those are nice eyes. 

 

“Not all of us can be fearless ghostbusters, or whatever,” you shoot back. 

 

“I wouldn’t say fearless,” he admits, and then winces, like he knows he has to fess up now. “Clowns. I’m terrified of clowns.” 

 

You giggle so hard you snort, and that gets Sam started, and the two of you laugh for so long your stomach hurts by the time you can catch your breath. You stare at him for a second, after, in something like amazement, because it’s been so damn long since anybody made you laugh like that, and you’re having all sorts of warm tingly feelings that you don’t even know what to do with. 

 

“Thanks for coming out with me,” he says. That half-smile could melt the heart of a frost giant. “I’m having fun.” 

 

“Me too,” you say, and before you can think better of it, “You’re, like, the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in at least a year, so.” 

 

He laughs, warm and genuine. “It’s nice to find somebody who I don’t have to lie to. I mean, I was having fun with you even before I told you about everything, but still. Most people would run the other way if I told them what I do for a living. And then of course the women who do know about it usually turn out to be monsters, so.” You are suddenly so curious you feel like you might combust, but he’s making a face that basically says  _ not talking about it  _ in big neon letters. “Anyway, it doesn’t exactly make dating easy.” 

 

“So this is a date?” you blurt out. You have a strong urge to kick yourself. 

 

“I mean, I hope so,” he says. His dimples are deepening as he tries to control his smile. 

 

You manage a nod. “Yeah, this is totally a date.” 

 

He’s fiddling with the stem of his wine glass, rolling it between those long delicate fingers, and  _ those fucking fingers.  _ Your brain is short-circuiting a little bit. And he’s doing this  _ thing _ with his tongue, this thing he’s been doing whenever he doesn’t know what to say, where his tongue darts out and flicks over his lower lip, quick and precise, and it’s turning your insides to blistering-hot mush. You can think of so many better places for him to be putting that tongue, holy crap, and - 

 

“You alive in there?” he’s asking, bemused. 

 

Shit. 

 

“Hmm?” you ask, trying to pretend you weren’t just thinking what you were totally just thinking. 

 

“I said, do you want anything else? I think they’re trying to close the kitchen,” he says. 

 

“I’m fine,” you say breathily. You are so not fine. 

 

“Then...do you want to get out of here? Maybe have another drink somewhere, or-” 

 

“We can go to my place,” you say, too eagerly, but he’s grinning just as eagerly. He nods. 

 

Sam’s phone starts ringing, but he quickly silences it. You can see Dean’s name on the screen. 

 

“I told him I was taking the night off,” he says. He sounds guilty. 

 

“You don’t do that very often, huh?” you ask, and he shakes his head emphatically. 

 

It feels like it takes forever to get the check. You’re talking, somehow managing to put together coherent words, but your mind is just running a loop of  _ Did I put the laundry away? Holy shit we’re going to have sex. Pretty sure the kitchen is a mess, fuck. Holy shit we’re going to have sex. He wants to have sex with me. I get to have sex with that.  _

 

It’s been a while. 

 

Your mind is still racing when you pull up to your little house, and you’re suddenly self-conscious about the dead plant that’s been sitting on the front stoop for a month. Your life feels so plain next to Sam and his adventures and his stories and his stupid beautiful face.  _ You _ feel so plain. But he’s looking at you like you’re something precious and fascinating, the yellow streetlight throwing shadows over the surreal angles of his cheekbones, and you sorta forget how to breathe for a second. 

 

It’s hard to meet his eyes, when you finally step inside. You busy yourself putting down your purse, taking off your jacket, grabbing two wine glasses out of the cupboard. 

 

“Do you want white or red? I’m not sure what I have, I think there’s a bottle of white open, but I know you said you like red, so…” You’re babbling. Shit. “There’s whiskey, too, or I could just-” 

 

His hand curls around your wrist, and when you turn around, he’s _ there _ , so damn close that the words die in your throat. There’s an edge under that sweet dimpled smile now, something hungry and fierce that makes your stomach do backflips. He’s moving closer, slow and careful, watching to make sure it’s okay. 

 

Blue. His eyes look blue in this light. And then-

 

Holyfucking _ shit _ it’s a good kiss. It’s the kind of kiss that makes you feel like the world is spinning, like the universe suddenly revolves around you and Sam locked together in your dingy little kitchen, you snaking your arms up to feel those broad shoulders while he tangles a huge hand in your hair, and you just  _ melt _ . His mouth is hot and insistent and he’s doing perfect, devastating things with his tongue. You didn’t think kisses like this existed outside of movies.  

 

You almost stumble, too lightheaded to think about where your feet are, but before you can lose your balance he’s pulling you closer, pressing his entire body to yours. You can feel the muscles of his chest hard under your palms, and the strength of his arms as they curl around you, and then he crushes you against him and kisses you like he  _ needs _ you, and you make a desperate little sound into his mouth. 

 

Your back hits the kitchen counter. He’s got you trapped against it, nibbling at your neck while his thigh finds its way between your legs, and you can’t help but rock your hips forward against his. His barely-there moan might be the best thing you’ve ever heard, and then he’s grinding against you, dirty and perfect, and you can feel how hard he is and (holy shit) how  _ big _ he is, and it’s like Christmas and your birthday and the best porn you’ve ever seen all wrapped together in one enormous package. 

 

And then somebody is pounding on your front door. 

 

What the fuck. 

 

You make an embarrassing sort of  _ hngh  _ sound when Sam pulls away, but it’s gratifying to see that he looks just as wrecked as you feel. He’s even more gorgeous with his lips all swollen like that, and his chest is doing this huffy thing that makes your pulse pound in your ears. 

 

“Sammy!” you hear from outside. “Sammy, we have a problem!” 

 

You cross back to the door and open it. It’s Dean, of course, looking wild-eyed and impatient, with a gun in one hand. 

 

“Seriously?” you ask, hand on your hip, and your face must look terrifying, because Dean actually flinches. 

 

“Dean, remember that whole thing where I took the night off?” Sam says, and you catch him adjusting himself in his pants as he comes back into the living room.  _ Unf _ , your brain chips in unhelpfully. 

 

Dean’s smirking, and Sam is glaring, and you’ve never seen them look so much like brothers. 

 

“Yeah, well, the werewolf did  _ not _ take a night off, and I think I figured out who it is,” Dean says. He invites himself in, stepping right past you, and you close the door behind him, fuming. 

 

“Here,” he says, handing Sam a handful of shiny bullets. “Load up, we gotta go.” 

 

“Dude, I don't have my gun,” Sam snaps. “Night off, remember?” 

 

“How did you even find him?” you ask. 

 

“We’ve both been kidnapped a lot,” Sam says, rolling his eyes. “He has his ways.” 

 

That sounds distinctly illegal and also super annoying, but you try to let it go. 

 

“Nobody is going anywhere in my fucking jurisdiction until somebody tells me what the fuck is happening,” you say. Sam shoots you a pink-cheeked dimpled grin like he is totally turned on by bossiness. You make a mental note. 

 

“Silver kills werewolves,” Dean snaps. “The guy who tried to start a fight last night? Turner? He’s a werewolf. We’re going to kill the werewolf.” 

 

“Give me some silver bullets, let me load up, and then we can go kill the werewolf.” You hold out a hand, smiling placidly when he frowns. 

 

“I don't think-” Sam starts. 

 

“No fucking way you are finishing this thing without me,” you say flatly. “Besides, do  _ you  _ know where he lives? Cause I know where he lives.” 

 

Dean glares and grumbles, but Sam hands over the silver bullets. You fetch your gun from your purse and re-load it quickly. 

 

“Just for the record,” Dean says, as he reaches for the doorknob, “I still think this is a bad-” 

 

The door slams open, knocking Dean aside, and a snarling thing with a mouthful of teeth charges in. Yep, sure enough, it’s Turner. Asshole. 

 

The thing goes straight for Dean, knocking him to the ground. Sam curses and runs at it, apparently trying to fight it with his bare hands, which you can tell immediately is a stupid plan, and Turner whirls just in time to send Sam flying back onto his ass. Dean manages to pull a knife, but the werewolf sends that skittering across the floor as well. It rakes impossibly-sharp claws across Dean’s chest, and Sam and Dean scream in unison. 

 

You pull the safety, aim carefully, and shoot, and the wolf-Turner-asshole-thing slumps over Dean, dead as fuck. 

 

Your ears are ringing. Your tinnitus is not getting better anytime soon, that's for sure. Shit. 

 

It takes a second to notice that Sam and Dean have gotten to their feet and are staring at you with equally astonished expressions. 

 

You raise your eyebrows. “What?” 

 

“That was a really good shot,” Sam says, and you blush like a tomato again. 

 

“Shitty first impressions aside, that was badass,” Dean concedes. 

 

“Dean,” you say sweetly. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but if you don’t get out of my house now, I’m going to shoot you. Again.” 

Dean looks between you and Sam, who is laughing his ass off, and his eyebrows shoot up. “Oh! Right. Gotcha.” 

 

“Have a good night,” you say, and open the door pointedly. He’s almost gone when he turns back around, pointing at the dead werewolf. 

 

“Don’t you want to at least-” 

 

“No!” you and Sam say in unison. 

 

Dean rolls his eyes, but he leaves, and you lock the door behind him. 

 

“Now, where were-  _ mmph _ .” His lips are on yours before you can finish the sentence. You smile into the kiss and drag him toward your bedroom. 

 


End file.
